


Ascendancy

by StarCrossedRebel



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15791556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarCrossedRebel/pseuds/StarCrossedRebel
Summary: The night following Dain's coronation, Bard is invited to drink with the Elvenking.Broken into 2 parts.





	Ascendancy

Humming softly to himself, Bard kicked an empty wine chalice out of the way, the shaped metal skittering over the freshly lain cobblestone, and continued to wend his way through the newly restored streets of Dale, delving deeper into the night. The stars twinkled overhead, having long since cast their glittering net across the blue-black sky. The moon moved imperceptibly, sliding toward the Iron Hills. It now loomed in the eastern corner, fat and bright, pouring amber light onto the inhabitants of Middle Earth. 

Bard chanced a look at the bulbous moon hanging low in the night sky, drooping like an overripe fruit. He smiled wistfully at Her ethereal beauty, reminded of a certain elf who was just as cold and untouchable as She, though far more stunning in Bard’s eyes. 

“ _ Mahal _ .” Bard muttered a quiet curse as he stumbled over a discarded boot. Best to keep his eyes on the ground… and his heart in his chest. 

Though the hour was late, Dale’s streets were thronged with dwarves and men and elves alike, all reveling in drunken bliss. Raucous laughter and slurred voices rose high in the night air. Languages mixed together into an incomprehensible but decidedly happy blur, cut through by the clanging of tankards of ale being slammed together in toasted celebration. Upright torches lined the streets, washing the cobblestone in a warm orange glow, the low, flickering light lending the night an amorous atmosphere.  

“Bard!” 

Bard shifted the sleeping Tilda in his arms, looking over the crown of her head, wisps of her hair tickling his nose. The man who had called Bard’s name detached himself from a group of dwarves and approached Bard, a tankard of ale in his hand, its amber contents sloshing over the sides from his uneven gait. He stumbled up to Bard, the flickering torchlight revealing his drunken grin. At some point in the night, he must have lost his woolen cap. His gray hair fell about his face unimpeded. 

“Hello, Percy,” Bard greeted. 

Percy stopped a few feet away, his body swaying forward and back as he tried to bring Bard into focus. When it inevitably didn’t work, Percy’s grin widened. Raising his tankard of ale, his voice roughened with drink, he said, “We ought to have a coronation like this for you!”

An amused smile warmed Bard’s features. “You don’t think that Dain maybe overdid it?” he asked. As if on cue, one of the dwarves in the company Percy had just been standing with keeled over, falling face first into the shallow fountain he had been standing next to with a loud splash. The dwarves around him roared with laughter, bending over to beat their knees with their fists and to bang their tankards against the rim of the fountain. The wasted dwarf came up spitting water and shouting curses. 

“No harm in throwing a good party,” Percy said, smile inextinguishable. “I think it’s long overdue, after everything we’ve been through.” 

“Aye,” Bard said. “It’s been a long and difficult road, with loss on all sides. I think we’ve earned a bit of fun.” 

Percy thrust his chin at Tilda and gave a cackling laugh, “Looks like some of us had  _ too _ much fun.” 

Bard laughed. “So much so I had to pull an honest to god sword out her hand once. Still not sure wear she got it from. She wouldn’t tell me, which leads me to believe it was one of the elves.”

Percy shook his head in fond amusement. “Her mischief is of your own making, Bard. You’re going to have your hands full with that one.”

“I already do,” Bard said.

“Aye,” Percy said. “See that she gets some proper rest. At the rate things are going, she’s going to be the only one tomorrow with working faculties! I might need her to take up my post!”

After a short exchange of goodnights, Bard continued on his journey, working his way down the winding, sloping streets of Dale. The atmosphere changed subtly as Bard left the heart of the town and entered the outcroppings. It was still just as bright and awake with movement, but there was a different quality to the air. Whereas the inner city was filled with raucous laughter and excited chatter, the outer edge of Dale was a low throb of murmuring Elvish and Dwarven drum beats. 

As Bard passed beneath the town’s gates, the ambience intensified, for sprawled across the grassy field that stretched out from the base of Dale was the Elvish encampment. Rows upon rows of white tens had been erected, their silky fabric fluttering in the night breeze. Interspersed between them were massive bonfires, their bright flames leaping into the sky. Elves danced sinuously around the fires, their slender frames bending as if to imitate the flames. Dwarves, in a strange show of camaraderie, sat in clusters around the fires, pounding on drums with slow, steady beats.

Bard picked his way across the field, carefully sidestepping pocks of dirt. As he drew closer to the festivities, the sound of the drums grew louder, a low pulse that echoed the beating of his own heart. He passed by strolling elves and guffawing dwarves, even a few passed out men sleeping soundly in the grass. He entered a ring of light cast by one of the fires and scanned the numerous faces sitting around the edge of it. When Sigrid caught sight of Bard, her blue eyes lit up and she stood from the blanket she was sitting on, striding over to Bard with the grace of a young woman. 

“Father,” Sigrid greeted with a smile. 

“Daughter.” Bard smiled warmly in return. “I think your sister is ready for bed.”

Sigrid laughed. “That might be an understatement,” she said. “I’ll take her back to the tent with me.” She reached out her arms.

Bard shook his head. “No, I’ll take her. You stay here and enjoy the festivities. I just wanted to tell you that we were turning in for the night. Do you know where Bain is?” 

“He’s with Balin,” Sigrid said, “pestering stories out of him about trolls and goblins or some such.” Bard let out a breath of amusement. “I’ll return with Tilda,” Sigrid said again. “You should stay.”

A puzzled smile twitched at the corner of Bard’s lips. He shifted Tilda’s weight in his arms; she let out a sleepy mumble. “Why?” he asked. 

Sigrid stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Tilda. She took their closeness as an opportunity to whisper near Bard’s ear. “Because,” she said, “the Elvenking is here, and he is watching you.” 

Bard was stunned into stillness. His heart sped up at the mention of the Elvenking. Sigrid took Tilda from his arms and laughed, a light, tinkling sound that carried in the air. “Don’t drink too much, Papa,” Sigrid teased, and kissed him on the cheek. Bard watched her go, still shocked by her brazen words. 

His reeling thoughts were interrupted by a melodious voice. “The Elvenking invites you to drink with him.” Bard turned around, heart hammering in his chest. An elf stood before him, head bowed slightly so his long brown hair fell around his face and cascaded down his shoulders. He offered Bard a crystal lattice wine chalice filled to the brim with a rich red liquid that smelled strongly of fruit and honey. Bard took it with numb fingers. 

The elf smiled, pleased with Bard’s acceptance of his king’s offer. “The Elvenking awaits your presence,  _ mellon nîn _ ,” the elf said. Then he paused, his head tilted imperceptibly to the side in consideration. The corner of his mouth lifted slyly. “Don’t keep him waiting. If you make him wait, he’ll be sure to return the treatment.” There was a twinkle in the elf’s eye as he turned to walk away. 

Bard stood there, stock still, the chalice gripped between his hands. His gaze flickered over the elf’s retreating figure and landed on the magnificent creature lounging in the firelight, waiting for him. The Elvenking, as always, was impeccably arranged, lounging artfully in a makeshift throne beneath an awning of colorful silks. He looked like a trick of the light, his silver robes and pale hair flickering in the firelight. Bard’s eyes traced down the Elvenking’s balanced figure, taking in his long, perfectly shaped limbs, no doubt toned from millenias of sword work and archery. The thought of what lay beneath the silver robes made Bard’s throat dry, and he swallowed, thickly. Sea glass eyes, bright and dancing in the firelight, watched Bard in return, mischievous and strangely knowing. A ghost of a smile haunted the Elvenking’s mouth. 

“Meddling children,” Bard muttered to himself. He brought the chalice to his lips and downed it in one go. Liquid fire slid down his throat, pooling in his stomach. Heat flooded his body, his blood fizzling, spreading warmth from toe tip to scalp. He was engulfed in a pleasant buzzing sensation, his body humming from the alcohol. The world around him changed, time slowing down by a single notch, those moving around him slightly blurred with the past. A lopsided grin slid across Bard’s face. 

He had to concentrate slightly to keep himself from stumbling, but otherwise, walking felt very nice. The air moved around him, warm and alive, prickling his skin. The firelight danced before his vision, flickering pools of yellow and orange and white and pale blue. The sky was an abyss of midnight blue, colored by the high moon, tipping with the weight of a billion twinkling stars. There was a light, sweet smelling breeze that lifted Bard’s hair and his coat flap. The soft grass was crushed beneath his traveling feet.

The two guards flanking the Elvenking barely spared Bard a glance as he approached; he passed them unimpeded, and entered beneath the Elvenking’s silk awning. The Elvenking regarded him with amusement, one dark brow arched. Bard’s face hurt from smiling so widely, but he couldn’t seem to stop. 

“My Lord,” Bard said, bringing his left hand to his chest and bowing slightly.

“Bard,” the Elvenking replied. Raising a finger to the chalice in Bard’s right hand, he said, “It seems that you approve of the wine.”

Bard straightened, resting his arms at his sides in a relaxed posture. “It was very good. Thank you.”

“ _ Was? _ ” said the Elvenking. Then, realizing the chalice was empty, he said, with no small amount of amusement, “I see. I did not mean for you to drink it all at once. That wine is from my personal stores. It is very strong.” 

“Yes, I’m beginning to understand that,” Bard said. He swayed forward on his feet and had to right himself. “But I had to. No other way to get my pansy arse over here.”

“Am I that daunting?” The Elvenking’s second dark brow raised to join the first.

“You’re that beautiful,” Bard said, and then clapped a hand comically over his mouth.  _ Oops. _ He definitely didn’t mean to say that out loud. He stifled a laugh behind his hand. “I think the alcohol’s loosened my tongue a bit.”

“Indeed,” the Elvenking said, that same ghost of a smile twisting his lips. “Let’s see what other enlightening things you have to say.” He gestured to a seat next to him, heavy oak swathed in fine silks. Bard eyed the chair, trying to focus it into a single, solid image. He sat down rather heavily. “More wine?” the Elvenking offered. 

“I better not,” Bard said. “You’ll have to carry me to bed if I do.”

The Elvenking’s eyes twinkled. “All in due time,” he said. 

Bard watched the Elvenking as he picked up a chalice off a nearby table, his slender fingers wrapping around the smooth stem. His supple lips parted and fitted around the rim of the glass, taking a shallow drink. When he swallowed, Bard followed the tantalizing bob of his adam’s apple. The show ended when the tip of a pink tongue darted out, catching a droplet of wine left behind on the Elvenking’s lips. Bard’s mouth was suddenly very dry. His cock stirred in damning interest. 

“Are you sure you don’t want some wine, Bard?” the Elvenking asked, humor tinging his voice. 

Bard shook his head. “No, thank you, that’s not… what I want.” 

The Elvenking tilted his head to the side, his pale hair falling like a waterfall over one shoulder. Bard had to resist the very powerful urge to reach over and run his fingers through the Elvenking’s hair, to discover if it was as soft as he imagined it to be. 

“But there is something that you want?” the Elvenking said. 

“Very much so,” Bard said, before he could still his tongue. He felt his cheeks flush and hoped it would be mistaken for the drink. He forced himself to meet the Elvenking’s eyes.

“Anything I might be able to give you?” the Elvenking asked, almost idly. His sea glass eyes were sparkling with mirth, contradicting the lazy tone of his voice. He rose the chalice to his lips once more, eyes intent on Bard. 

“I—” Bard stopped and furrowed his brows, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He was an honest and straightforward man. He wasn’t good at acting coy or playing games. Nor did, did he believe, the Elvenking deserve to be toyed with. He was an elf of honor and valor and had helped Bard and his people when they needed it the most. Without him, Bard had no doubt that Lake Town would be a decimated wasteland of shifting ash. The Elvenking deserved nothing less than Bard’s honesty and admiration.

Calling upon every last ounce of his drunken courage, Bard took a deep breath. “I will not lie to you,” he said, “or mock you. Though what I’m about to say may be very insolent of me.” The Elvenking’s eyes were wide on him. “I believe you to be an honest and true elf. I have never met a truer man. And though you appear aloof, I know you’ve a heart. You had no reason to, yet you fought alongside my people in battle and offered aid through the winter. And yes, you are also very beautiful, but that’s not the half of it. So when you ask if there is something that I want, and if you can give it to me, I wonder if you know what thoughts enter my mind.”

The Elvenking regarded Bard for a quiet moment, then parted his lips and said something in Sindarin.

“Calling the guard?” Bard asked. His tone was teasing, but he couldn’t deny the frantic hammering of his heart. 

The elvenking stood, silver robes falling around him like silken water. “Hardly,” he said, and held out a hand. “Come with me.” 

Bard eyed the elegant hand poised before him, almost afraid to take it, if not for what the small action would insinuate, then for no other reason than he didn’t want to dirty with fine alabaster skin with his own dirty hand. He lifted his hand and hesitated, hovering over the Elvenking’s open palm and outstretched fingers. “Where to?” he asked, looking up at sea glass eyes. 

The Elvenking sighed, light and easy. “Why are men so suspicious of everything?”

A small smile curled the edge of Bard’s mouth up. “Because we’re not immortal.”

Tired of waiting, the Elvenking wrapped his hand around Bard’s wrist and yanked him up and out of his seat, pulling Bard close to the elf’s body. The tips of their boots touched and their chests were pressed flush together. The Elvenking’s fingers remained clutched around Bard’s wrist while his free arm snaked around Bard’s waist, shuffling Bard ever closer. The Elvenking then dipped his head to whisper into Bard’s ear. Bard felt each word form on the Elvenking’s soft lips as they brushed against the sensitive skin of his ear. “I want to take you to my tent. It’s more private there.”

Bard’s eyes widened and he pulled back slightly to meet the Elvenking’s gaze. “Do you not first wish to finish your wine? I did not mean to give the impression that I was in a rush.”

The Elvenking smiled, warm and lascivious. “It is not wine that I thirst for,” he said, breath hot on Bard’s face and smelling strongly of sweet wine. He brought his face forward a few miniscule centimeters, tilting his head at a near imperceptible angle so their noses brushed and the distance between their mouths closed to the point where their separation was a sensation all on its own. 

Bard held his breath, toes curling in his boots in anticipation. 

“Now come,” the Elvenking whispered, and broke apart. Bard stumbled forward half a pace as he was released from the Elvenking’s grasp. Before he could ask any more questions, the Elvenking turned with an elegant twist of his body and strode away, passing beneath the draped entrance of the silk awning and sinking into the vivid night. Bard, slightly dazed, trailed after.


End file.
